


Another Empty Space

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-28
Updated: 2009-10-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: When John remarries and moves to Carmel, California, Dean isn't expecting much besides dullness.  What he gets is a bedroom haunted by the ghost of a boy named Samuel and an inexplicable connection that seems to defy all logic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This is very loosely based on the book series The Mediator. A big thanks to my beta **katbcoll**!

Dean's pretty sure he has the wrong house. He _has_ to, because there is no fucking way John Winchester would ever agree to live in a place like this, new wife or otherwise. He's about to turn the Impala around and go back down the ridiculously long driveway when the door bangs open and Ellen Harvelle comes bounding down the steps with John in tow. “You're late, young man,” she says, but she's smiling big and wide.

 

Dean shuts off the engine and opens his door with a loud creak. “Yeah, sorry,” he says awkwardly. “I kinda got lost a few towns back.”

 

“Well, you're here now.” John steps forward and places a hand on Dean's shoulder. “How was the hunt?”

 

Dean shrugs and looks at him feet. “The shape shifter gave me the slip a couple times, but I got it eventually.”

 

“I see,” is all John says. Dean knows without having to look that his smile has been replaced by a disapproving frown.

 

“John, why don't we show Dean the house?” Ellen interjects, effectively changing the subject. John looks pleased again and Dean feels some of the tension leave his body. “We've been remodeling all month,” Ellen tells him as they walk up the porch steps. “We haven't gotten around to finishing your room yet, Dean, I'm sorry.”

 

“Don't worry about it,” Dean says immediately. “I'm sure it's fine just the way it is.”

 

Ellen smiles warmly at him. “This is your home too now. We want you to be comfortable.”

 

Dean tries to return her smile, but it comes off as a grimace. Ellen deflates a little at the sight, but she covers it by dragging him around the house and animatedly talking about its history. It's an old, huge Victorian, and Dean grudgingly admits to himself that it's actually quite beautiful. John tells him it used to be a boarding house, and he shows him a bullet hole in the wall of the living room that they framed. Dean secretly thinks it's a tad morbid, even for John.

 

They head upstairs and Ellen starts pointing out the bedrooms: first Jo's, then Andy's, then Jake's, and finally the master bedroom. Dean's is at the end of the hall, and Ellen reminds him that they plan to remodel it as soon as possible before she opens the door.

 

He can immediately see why they knew he wouldn't like it. It's really fucking girlie, with a big four-poster bed (and a _canopy_ ,) a dressing table with a large mirror, and pale pink walls. Dean's never been overly-worried about the rooms he sleeps in, so he thanks John and Ellen and tells them it's just fine.

 

“We'll bring your bags up and let you get unpacked,” John says. He puts an arm around Ellen and guides her towards the door. Dean wants to tell them he's not a girl and he's perfectly capable of getting his own damn bags, thank you very much, but they're already gone.

 

He sighs and watches the canopy flutter in the breeze from the open window. He's about to close it when he sees a boy sitting on the window-seat. “Jesus Christ!” he yelps, startled.

 

The boy looks at him with wide eyes. “You can-you can see me?” he asks, voice cracking with disuse.

 

Then Dean notices the guy isn't completely opaque and groans. “You have _got_ to be kidding me,” he says, throwing his hands in the air.

 

“Um,” the boy says. “Could we possibly go back to the part where _you can see me_?”

 

Dean ignores him. “You're a ghost,” he says and starts to pace back and forth. “This is just great. There is a _ghost_ living in my house.” He chuckles, but it is far from amused. “That's priceless. Only John Winchester would pick a haunted house to settle down in.”

 

“Are you a psychic or something?” the boy asks. “Is that why you can see me?”

 

“Do I _look_ like a psychic to you, ghost-boy?” Dean plops into the chair in front of the dressing table and buries his face in his hands.

 

“Well, do psychics look any different from anyone else?” The ghost smiles wryly. “And my name is Sam, not... ghost-boy.”

 

“Well, Sam, nice to meet you. Now get the hell out,” Dean says, dropping his hands to shoot Sam a piercing look.

 

Sam looks startled. “What?”

 

“You heard me,” Dean says. “Get lost. I'm not about to be roomies with a ghost, and besides, haunting a house full of hunters? Not the best idea ever.”

 

Dean is sure the expression on Sam's face can be classified as a pout. “I was here first,” Sam says. “I've been here for a hundred and fifty years.”

 

“All the more reason to leave,” Dean says easily. “Take a vacation. Go rattle some chains and make _whoosh_ ing noises somewhere else. You can't stay here.”

 

“I can't _leave_!” Sam says stubbornly.

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Look, Sam, you seem like a nice... spook, so I'm not going to do the whole salt-and-burn routine on your ass. But _you can't stay here_. Believe me; I'm doing you a favor. If my dad finds out about you, it'll be much worse.”

 

“You're not listening to me,” Sam huffs. “ _I can't leave_. I can _not_ physically leave this room. Every time I try, I end up right back where I started.”

 

“Are you serious? You're telling me that you're a hundred and fifty years old, and you can't even work up the juice to leave the place you died in?” Dean asks incredulously. “Dude, you are the worse ghost _ever_.”

 

Sam shoots him a glare. “Sorry, dying wasn't exactly a top priority of mine. Excuse me for not embracing it.”

 

“Whatever, man,” Dean waves him off. “Just stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours. And for god's sake, keep under the radar. No ghost-y business of any kind. If my dad finds you, you're a goner, dude.” Dean hears the front door open below, and makes _shoo_ ing gestures with his hands. “My dad's coming back. You have to... I don't know, hide?”

 

Sam gives him a look that clearly says “ _I'm dead, you idiot_ ,” and vanishes.

 

Dean blinks. “Fucking ghosts.”

 

 

 

Dean has plenty of time to ponder the direction his life is taking while on the way to work the next day. Somehow, his father has remarried and given up hunting (as a full-time occupation, anyway,) moved to Carmel, California, of all places (they don't even have _streetlights_ , for Christ's sake!) and Dean is now hiding a ghost in his bedroom. What. The. Fuck.

 

Still, Sam's just... well; Dean doesn't even know what Sam is. _Harmless_ comes to mind, what with the puppy-dog eyes and the floppy hair and the dimpled smile. Dean is blaming this whole disaster on the dimples. It is most definitely their fault. Whatever.

 

Dean's hunted enough spirits to last him ten lifetimes, and he's come across a few good ones. While John doesn't differentiate between “supernatural” and “evil,” Dean doesn't see the point in killing something if it's not harming anything. He knows John would disapprove, but he's killed enough without needlessly adding to the list. So, he's going to let Sam stay in his room, as long as he stays out of Dean's way as promised. Dean's not going to say anything about it because John would probably want an exorcism done or something. Dean would rather avoid that; the sage smells like ass, and the stench of it lingers for _weeks_.

 

He's pulled from his thoughts—which is probably for the best, he was starting to feel a little hysterical—when he parks in front of the coffee shop John managed to get him a job at. Why John didn't get him a job at an auto shop or something Dean would actually be _good_ at is still a mystery, but Dean's not about to turn up his nose at the possibility of free coffee.

 

A pretty redhead is sitting behind the counter, and she waves happily to him as he approaches. “Hi, there! I'm Anna! What can I get for you?” She slaps a hand on the counter before Dean can even open his mouth to respond. “Oh, wait, you must be Dean! Cas! Get your ass out here!”

 

A rumpled looking man stalks out of the back room with a scowl. He looks more like a tax accountant than coffee shop worker, so Dean assumes he's the owner. “This is Dean,” Anna says excitedly. “John's son.”

 

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” he says solemnly. “My name is Castiel.”

 

Dean quirks a brow. “Yeah, you too.” He turns to Anna. “How is it you know my dad?”

 

“Oh, we've helped him on a few of his hunts over the years,” Anna says with a dismissive wave.

 

“So, you guys are hunters?” Dean can't help the skepticism in his voice.

 

“Of course not!” Anna laughs. “We're angels, silly!”

 

“And I'm Ted Nugent,” Dean says sarcastically.

 

“Really?” Castiel asks, perplexed. “Then I shall call you by your proper title. Anna, please teach Ted how to use the Cappuccino machine. I have urgent matters to deal with in my office.”

 

Anna looks vaguely concerned. “Another demon horde?”

 

“No, much worse,” Castiel replies. “Tax season.”

 

“Let's hope we don't get audited again,” Anna says. “That little bald man was not nice _at all_.”

 

Dean starts to wonder if he maybe pissed off some divine force in a past life, and if apologizing profusely could possibly end his current suffering.

 

It didn't.

 

 

 

When Dean gets home, Sam is curled up in the window-seat with one of Dean's books in his lap. He looks sheepishly at Dean for a moment and clears his throat. “Sorry,” Sam says with a blush. “I shouldn't touch your things, but it was lying out and I... I've always liked to read, so...”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don't worry about it,” he says. “My Uncle Bobby's constantly sending me books. Thinks I need to read more or something. You might as well use them, 'cause I sure as hell won't.”

 

Sam gives Dean a shy smile. “Thanks. It gets a bit dull sometimes.”

 

“A bit?” Dean laughs. “Sam, you've been here for a hundred and fifty years, what the hell do you do all day?”

 

Sam shrugs. “It depends,” he says thoughtfully. “If someone is living in the house, I can entertain myself fairly easily by borrowing their books or things. When the house is empty, I normally just... think.”

 

“What do you think about?” Dean asks, surprised that he genuinely wants to know.

 

“Life, I guess,” Sam answers. “Death, the universe. Anything.”

 

“So you brood,” Dean smirks.

 

“What? No!” Sam says indignantly. “I ponder the meaning of life.”

 

Dean bursts out laughing. “You _so_ brood!”

 

Sam still looks mildly offended, but the corners of his mouth are twitching into a smile. “How do you spend your time?” Sam asks in turn.

 

“I help people,” Dean says.

 

Sam smiles at that. “How so?”

 

“I...” Dean trails off, thinking it's probably not the best idea to tell a spirit that his job is to get rid of the unnatural.

 

“Tell me,” Sam pleads. He hugs his knees to his chest and watches Dean in rapt attention.

 

“I hunt things,” Dean says after a while. “Supernatural things... creatures, I guess.”

 

“Like ghosts?” Sam asks quietly.

 

“Sometimes,” Dean says honestly. “When they're hurting someone.” The smile he receives for that is blinding.

 

“I've never hurt anyone, you know,” Sam says.

 

“Good.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I thought you were a 'hunter'?” Sam asks one morning, rolling the word “hunter” in his mouth like it's something foreign and exotic.

 

Dean—already fifteen minutes late for work—grunts out an “I am” as he pulls up the bedclothes to look under his bed for his wayward boot.

 

“Hunting has a uniform?” Dean doesn't even have to look from his place on the floor to know Sam has his “broody” face on.

 

“Of course not,” Dean says and drops the bed skirt with a disgruntled huff. “I'm working in a coffee shop. For now.”

 

“From hunting the unnatural to a coffee shop?” Sam laughs. “How does that happen?”

 

“Hunting's not a life you choose, Sammy,” Dean says. “Sometimes you just need a break.”

 

“It's Sam,” he protests. “And that's why you're here? You're taking a break?”

 

“I guess,” Dean says, crawling to the closet to rummage through its contents.

 

“Why did you start hunting?” Sam asks. “If it's not something you choose; there must have been something that forced you into it.”

 

Dean's spine turns into a rigid line under his shirt. “It's complicated,” he says quietly. He pulls his boot from the closet and says, “I'll see you later,” before he flees out the door. The “goodbye, Dean” that follows him is so quiet he barely hears it.

 

 

 

“Dean!” Anna yells; waves so hard she tilts precariously on her ladder. “Good morning!”

 

“What the hell are you doing up there?” Dean demands.

 

“Changing the prices on the board,” Anna says. “Cas said it's because of something called inflation, and also, the evil deeds of a demon named George W. Bush.”

 

Dean drops his jacket on the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee from the fresh pot. “Yeah, well, just don't fall and break your neck.”

 

Anna laughs. “Don't be silly. I'm a transcendent being! That wouldn't hurt me.” Dean mumbles in what she assumes is agreement. “How was your weekend?”

 

Dean shrugs and plops onto his stool. A small fan is blowing noisily on the counter, but Dean's glad for the extra air. In the heat of a California summer, not even the central cooling can change the fact that it's sweltering. “It was fine,” he says. “How was yours?”

 

“You're getting better at this small-talk business.” Anna beams. “And my weekend was superb. I watched _Spice World_ ten times.”

 

Dean chokes on his coffee. “Spice World? Really?” he asks with an arched brow.

 

Anna nods. “I especially like Ginger Spice,” she says. “Cas thinks I would look just like her if I dyed my bangs white.”

 

“Please don't.” Dean grimaces.

 

“If you insist,” Anna says, sounding sad.

 

 

 

“Heya, Bobby,” Dean says and slips down the hallway. The kids are in their rooms and John and Ellen are out shopping, so Dean feels relatively safe having this phone call in the house.

 

“Hey, kid,” Bobby replies. “What can I do for ya?”

 

“What do you know about the house my dad bought?” Dean asks, after a cursory look to make sure he is indeed alone in the spacious living room.

 

There's a long pause on the other line before Bobby's sigh floats through Dean's phone. “Not much,” he admits. “Didn't see no reason to look into it. Why? There a problem?”

 

“No,” Dean says hastily. “Well... sort of.” He scratches the back of his neck. “There's kind of a ghost living in my bedroom.”

 

“What!”

 

“Don't freak,” Dean says quickly. “It's really not a big deal. The kid's harmless, trust me. He's more in danger of boring you to death than anything else.”

 

“Does your daddy know about this?” Bobby asks.

 

“Um,” Dean says and scuffs his boot along the pale green carpeting. “Not exactly?”

 

“Why the hell not?” Bobby demands. “He probably knows more about the history of the house than anyone. He could tell ya who to salt-and-burn faster than I could.”

 

“Well, that's kind of the problem, Bobby. I'm not going to salt-and-burn him.” Dean throws another look over his shoulder, but no one's in sight. “I just want to know who he is.”

 

“Are you out of your damn mind, boy?” Bobby asks.

 

“He's not hurting anything,” Dean insists. “He just sits around and reads all day. He can't even leave the room, Bobby. What's the point in burning him if he hasn't done anything to deserve it?”

 

“Look, your daddy ain't always right,” Bobby sighs. “But this is one time he is. Keeping a ghost trapped here? It's cruel.”

 

“Sam doesn't want to move on,” Dean lies. In truth, Dean's never asked Sam about it, and Sam's never mentioned any desire to be elsewhere. Dean's happy with the assumption that it means Sam's content where he is.

 

“Ghosts don't ever want to move on, you idjit,” Bobby scolds. “They're scared of what's on the other side. The unknown.”

 

“And they should be. We don't have any idea what happens to them after we burn the bones. We don't know where we send them, or if we sent them anywhere at all,” Dean says. “I'm not forcing Sam to move on unless I know he's going somewhere good. Now will you help me or not?”

 

“I'll help,” Bobby says grudgingly. “But I still think this is a bad idea.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I know, but I appreciate it.”

 

Bobby's huff tells Dean exactly how much that placates the older man. “What do you know about this Sam person? I'll need to narrow down the search.”

 

“Not much,” Dean admits. “Just that he died in my room a hundred and fifty years ago. He looks like he's in his early twenties. Nice clothes, so you know, he probably comes from a wealthy family. That's it.”

 

“I'll see what I can do,” is all Bobby says before hanging up.

 

 

 

Sam's fascinated by any news of the modern world. He can sit there for hours and listen to Dean talk about the most inane things like it's the most exciting shit he's ever heard. Dean guesses a hundred and fifty years in the same room would do that to a guy. Still, there are no words to express the geeky delight that crosses Sam's face as Dean explains the Internet to him.

 

“That's amazing!” Sam breathes. He eyes Dean's laptop with unrestrained fascination. “It's such a small contraption. Can you really use it to communicate with people across the world?”

 

Dean nods. “Among other things.”

 

Sam's fingers are twitching with the effort it takes to keep himself from reaching out and touching it. “You can play on it for a while if you want,” Dean laughs. “I have to go to work anyway. Just don't be surfing porn while I'm gone. I'd hate to think I corrupted your lily-white virtue.”

 

Sam's too engrossed in Dean's laptop to even pay attention. Dean rolls his eyes and mutters, “What a geek.”

 

 

 

“Where's Cas?” Dean asks as he enters the coffee shop.

 

“He had smiting to do,” Anna says very seriously.

 

“Oh, of course,” Dean says obligingly. He had gotten over the fact that Anna and Castiel were obviously a few fries short of a Happy Meal after about a week. “Angel business, how could I have forgotten?”

 

“Do you think it would be all right if I took off for a couple of days?” he asks. “I've got a hunt lined up in Wyoming.”

 

“Absolutely,” Anna says. “Saving lives always takes precedence.”

 

“Well, all right, then,” Dean says, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

 

 

 

“So, you're leaving?”

 

Dean tries to ignore the decidedly hang-dog look on Sam's face. “Just for a few days. I found reports of a string of mysterious deaths in Wyoming. Looks like a simple salt-and-burn case. Not to worry, Sammy.”

 

“It's Sam,” the ghost replies immediately. “What if you get hurt? Or it's not a simple... 'salt-and-burn'? You should take your father with you.”

 

“I don't need my dad's help,” Dean protests. “This isn't my first solo hunt and it definitely isn't the first vengeful spirit I've ganked.” Sam opens his mouth to protest and Dean shuts him up with a stern look. “Relax, would you? I'll be fine.”

 

“Just promise you'll come back,” Sam whispers.

 

Dean grins. “Aw, you're not getting rid of me that easy, Sammy.”

 

“Promise,” Sam insists.

 

“I promise.”

 

 

 

Halfway through his drive to Wyoming, his cell goes off. “Yeah?”

 

“I got the info on your boy,” Bobby says gruffly.

 

Dean really wants to address the “your boy” comment, but his curiosity outweighs his indignation and he prods Bobby on. “His name was Samuel Moore,” Bobby tells him. “He came from a wealthy ranching family out west.”

 

“What was he doing in my house, then?” Dean asks.

 

“Used to be an old boarding house,” Bobby says. “From what I've found, he was on his way to get married when he was murdered in your room. He was eighteen at the time.”

 

“Who did it?” Dean demanded.

 

“Don't know for sure,” Bobby says. “There was never enough proof to tie anyone to the murder, but the family always suspected the fiancée, Jessica. It was an arranged marriage, and neither one was particularly happy about it. Sam wanted to go to university and Jessica was in love with a fella named Gordon Walker. They got married two days after Sam's death.”

 

Dean clenches his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. “How'd they do it?”

 

Bobby's voice is grim when he says, “They tied him to the bed and burned him alive.”


	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes: Sorry it took so long for me to update this; I was in the hospital and it took me a while to bounce back.  


* * *

Dean turns around somewhere in Utah. Bobby was less than pleased to get a phone call asking him to take up Dean's hunt, but he eventually agreed. Dean just hopes Bobby keeps his word and doesn't tell John what Dean's been up to for the past few weeks; he trusts Bobby with his life, but now he's handed over Sam's too, without even asking him, and he doesn't know what he'll do if anything happens to Sam because of it.

 

He steps on the gas and hopes Sam is still there when he gets back.

 

 

 

 

John is, thankfully, still unaware of Dean's predicament when Dean walks through the door and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. John, while not ready to throttle him for hiding a ghost in his bedroom, does not look particularly happy to see him. “You're supposed to be on a hunt,” he says; with that intense gaze of his that has always made Dean want to crawl in a hole and never come back out. He's no more immune to it now than he was when he was a kid, and he nearly winces under his father's scrutiny.

 

“Yeah, well,” he scratches the back of his neck, at a loss. He'd been in such a hurry to get back that he never considered how suspicious it would look. “I got a call from Bobby; he, uh, was working a job in Nevada, so he said he'd take care of it.” Dean barely resists the urge to scuff his boot along the carpet. Belatedly, he tacks on, “Because he was passing through there on his way home. Obviously.”

 

John's lips thin to an angry line. “Dean, this was your hunt,” he says. “You can't just pawn it off on other hunters so you can come home and have a nice vacation. You have a job to do—“

 

“I didn't pawn it off—“

 

“Hunting can't be a hobby you brush to the side when you don't feel like doing it,” John continues. “It's a way of life. There is no backing out once you're in.”

 

“John, that's not fair,” Ellen says from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

 

“This isn't about what's fair or unfair,” John argues. “He—“

 

“You left hunting.” Ellen reminds him. “You proposed to me a year ago and you haven't been on a hunt since. Don't you lecture that boy when you can't follow your own rules.”

 

John looks momentarily stunned and Ellen takes the silence as an opportunity to turn to Dean and say, “You go get some sleep, you hear? You look dead on your feet.”

 

“I...” Dean trails off, looking between Ellen and his dad, staring at each other with a stubborn jut to their jaws.

 

“Go,” Ellen tells him and he doesn't argue.

 

 

 

 

A sigh of pure relief escapes Dean's lips as soon as he's free from his father's angry scowl. He can hear yelling coming from the direction of the kitchen and feels briefly guilty, but he pushes it aside when he heads upstairs and enters his empty bedroom. He has other things to deal with right now.

 

“Sam?” he calls out. He pauses for a moment, watching for even the slightest stir in the air around him. “Sammy? You here?” His next breath comes out in a puff of fog and then he's practically nose to nose with Sam.

 

“Dean!” Sam gasps, eyes wide and stricken. “What's wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

 

Dean blinks. “Whoa, slow down there, tiger. I'm fine.”

 

Sam lets out a completely unnecessary breath. “That's good.” He smiles, a bit sheepish. “I was worried, and, well... it's only been two days. I didn't think you'd be back so soon.”

 

“Something came up,” Dean said simply. “My Uncle Bobby is taking over the hunt for me.”

 

Sam's brows wrinkle with unease. “Dean, what is it?”

 

“I,” Dean begins, and drops into the vanity chair with a sigh. “I, um, asked Bobby to look into something for me, and...”

 

“Dean,” Sam pleads. “Please, just tell me.”

 

“I asked him to look into the history of the house.” Dean is looking at a spot in his carpet like it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen. “I asked him to look into your death.”

 

Sam's voice is carefully blank when he asks, “Why would you do that?”

 

“I needed to know, Sam,” Dean says, voice brimming with frustration. “Do you understand what I'm doing here? I'm a hunter, you're a ghost; I should be—I should have told my dad about you the moment I realized what you are and I _didn't_.” He looks up at Sam now and the younger man's face is more annoyed than angry, so Dean considers that a good sign. “I'm betraying my family, Sam. Dad's the only thing I have left and I'm lying to him. I just needed to know I was doing the right thing.”

 

Sam deflates a little under Dean's heavy gaze and he says, with the last lingering bit of irritation, “You could have just asked.” His hands toy with the hem of his shirt—white with frilled sleeves, much to Dean's amusement—like he doesn't know what to do with them and turns to look out the window. “What did you find, then?”

 

“Your name is Samuel Moore,” Dean says quietly. “You came from a ranching family out west. You were on your way to get married when you stopped here for the night. Then someone tied you up while you were asleep and...” Dean breaks off, unable to finish.

 

“I suppose you figured out who was responsible for it,” Sam says, a noticeable effort to keep his voice neutral. Dean wishes Sam would turn around so he can see his expression.

 

“It was Jessica, wasn't it?” Dean asks. “Your fiancee.”

 

“Presumably,” Sam says. “I woke up, before the fire was started. Gordon Walker was standing over me, pouring the oil from a lamp onto my bedclothes. Jessica wasn't there, but she must have organized it. Gordon was a bastard but he wouldn't murder someone unless he was pressured into it.”

 

“That bitch,” Dean seethes. “I'll rip her fucking lungs out!”

 

“Keep your voice down, someone will hear you,” Sam chastises and when he turns back around, there's a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Jessica likely died a hundred years ago, if not before. There is nothing you can do to her, Dean.”

 

“I'll dig the bitch up and shoot her a couple times,” Dean fumes.

 

“And what, pray tell, do you hope to accomplish by doing that?” Sam asks dryly.

 

Dean shrugs. “I don't know. It'll make me feel better.”

 

Now Sam's smiling so wide that his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Then, by all means, go ahead.”

 

 

 

 

If Anna is surprised to see Dean at work the next day, she doesn't show it. In fact, her eyes are sparkling with a knowing glint and something else, unidentifiable and creepy, when Dean takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. “Good morning, Dean,” she says happily. “Your hunt went well?” And there's that damn creepy look again; Dean turns around to pour himself a cup of coffee just to avoid it.

 

“Yeah, great,” Dean says blandly, hissing when he overbalances the coffee pot and splashes his hand. “All in a day's work.” There is a noise that sounds distinctly like a snort behind him, but he pointedly ignores it. “How have things been here?”

 

“Excellent,” Anna chirps. “We sold coffee and... coffee-like things.” She waves her hand in an airy gesture that could mean anything. “The usual.”

 

“You sold coffee? In a coffee shop? Unimaginable.”

 

“To coin a popular expression: don't be a dick,” Anna says. “Besides, you're not scheduled to work until next week.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Dean sits on one of the stools in front of the cash register. “I'd rather just work then stay at home and be bored. You could use an extra hand.”

 

“You don't want to go home.” It's not a question.

 

“I didn't say that,” replies Dean.

 

Anna gives him a sad look. “Your father means well, Dean,” she says. “He really does.”

 

This is the most solemn Dean has ever seen Anna, and frankly, it's freaking him out. “My dad has nothing to do with it.” If his voice is just a tad too defensive, Anna doesn't mention it.

 

“Dean, I've met John,” she says with an exaggerated eye roll. “You came back from a hunt early; he's bound to be upset.”

 

“I didn't—”

 

Anna ignores him. “But John will get over it. There is someone in that house that is hurting and scared and he needs you.”

 

“What do you mean?” Dean asks. His stomach drops at her words. “Did Jake—Andy—? Is something wrong with them?”

 

Anna gives him a put upon sigh and a flat look that clearly says “ _boys_.” She replies, exasperatedly, “Go back to Samuel, Dean. We'll manage without you for a while,” and wanders off to the back room.

 

“Hey!” Dean yells, follows after her. “How do you know about that? Anna—?“ He flings open the door, but the back room is empty.

 

“What the hell?” he mutters to himself. He stands there for a few minutes before he makes his way back to the main area, grabs his jacket, and leaves, feeling completely unsettled.

 

 

 

 

“She knew about me?” Sam's face pinches into a frown. “How? I mean, did you ever mention—”

 

“I've never said anything to her!” Dean says. He's sitting on his bed, back against the headboard while Sam stretches out along the foot of it, long legs dangling off the side as he absently fingers the book in his hands. “I don't get it.”

 

Sam shrugs. “Maybe she really is an angel.”

 

Dean cocks an eyebrow and throws a pillow at Sam's head. It falls right through and Sam laughs before he hurls it back at Dean and hits him square in the face. “Dude, being incorporeal is an unfair advantage,” Dean gripes. “And you can't tell me you actually believe in that angel crap. There's no such thing. Cas and Anna are off their meds.”

 

“Your job is to hunt creatures of the supernatural,” Sam points out. “Which includes ghosts, witches, vampires, werewolves, and Pagan gods, but you don't believe in angels? To me, that suggests inner conflict.”

 

“Don't be a smart ass, it really doesn't suit you,” Dean sniffs. “I believe in something when I see it for myself. No hunter anywhere, at any time, has seen an angel. Don't you think we would have crossed paths at some point, if they existed?”

 

“You make a valid point,” Sam agrees reluctantly. “But there's something not right about her; you said that she _disappeared_. So, if not an angel, what is she?”

 

“I don't know,” Dean huffs. “I can't exactly ask her, can I? She'd just spout more of that 'transcendent being' shit.”

 

“Are you going to,” Sam makes a vague gesture with his hands. “You know, hunt them?”

 

“No,” Dean says. Then, “I don't know. Maybe. I'll have to look into it, but I'm not going to go in there guns blazing first thing tomorrow morning, if that's what you're asking. Honestly, how malevolent can they be? They own a _coffee shop_ for chrissakes.”

 

Sam gives him a bright smile. “I'm glad.”

 

Dean glances at the clock on his nightstand and sighs. “It's getting late; I should be going to bed.”

 

Sam sits up, slowly, and regards him carefully for a few moments. “Dean?” he asks, softly.

 

Dean tugs his t-shirt over his head. “Yeah?”

 

“Can I, um,” Sam starts, and then _blushes_. “Nevermind.”

 

“What, Sammy?” Dean prods. “Just ask.”

 

“Can I stay here tonight?” Sam looks down at the bedspread and traces the designs with his fingers.

 

“Um,” Dean answers, confused. “Do you, you know... sleep?”

 

“No,” Sam says. “But I could just read my book. Or something.” He glances up and blushes again at the dubious look Dean is giving him. “It's just, I can't leave this room. So, the only place to go is the astral plane, and that... it just gets lonely there, is all.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, after a moment. “Yeah, you can stay. Do you, um, need a light on? So you can see your book?”

 

“No,” Sam says around a wide grin. “The moon's full tonight. I'll have more than enough light.”

 

Dean shakes his head as he slips under the blankets. “Well, all right, then.”

 

Sam slides off the bed soundlessly and settles into the window seat with his book. “Good night, Dean,” he says when the bedside lamp goes out.

 

There is a moment of stillness, when nothing but darkness and the soft cadence of Dean's breathing cuts through the air, and then Dean mutters, “Night, Sammy.”


End file.
